


Follow the Yellow Brick Road

by YumYumPM



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 21:34:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1124617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YumYumPM/pseuds/YumYumPM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A classic tale forces IK and NS to look at something that each was unaware was missing from their lives.  Can their dreams point the way?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Follow the Yellow Brick Road

Their assignments had taken them to some of the world’s most exotic places: London, Paris, Rome, and Monte Carlo just to name a few. Excitement, adventure and intrigue. Evidently, this assignment was not going to be one of them. This assignment had all the earmarks of being incredibly dull and boring. A fate worse then death. Well, maybe not worse than death - but when you were used to excitement -. Napoleon wondered, from his uncomfortable seat on the floor by the window, what the unknown reason was that relegated them to this dreary, dusty, and filthy attic on the pretense of keeping an eye on the building across the way. He shook his head in frustration. What had they done to deserve such punishment?

Illya was currently rummaging through all the junk scattered around the room and making a great deal of noise doing it. More noise than was strictly necessary. It said much for the situation as Illya could be quiet as a cat when he wanted to be. Napoleon watched as Illya found a dusty old book from somewhere in all that clutter. Brushing aside a cobweb dangling from his blond hair with one hand, Illya started coughing as he slapped the cover of the book against his thigh, sending dust flying everywhere.

His partner’s displeasure with this assignment had been increasingly evident by the silence that had prevailed ever since they had left Waverly’s office. A silent, disgruntled Illya was not pleasant to be around at any time. It was the silence that was driving him crazy, Napoleon realized with a mental sigh. Surely, this assignment was not his fault. Then he remembered Alexander Waverly’s parting statement following the briefing. “Perhaps, Mr. Solo, this assignment will be less stressful on your expense account.”

Hell, could he help it if they had wrecked two cars and a helicopter on their last assignment? Illya had been the one flying the chopper, and his ruined suit had been one of his favorites. Nonetheless, that was undoubtedly, why the two of them were here now until further notice, surrounded by junk.

“What have you got there?” Napoleon asked, dealing with the problem directly. His gaze trained on the book.

“What does it look like?” The Russian snapped peevishly, before flopping down on a ratty mattress that they had found and pulled near the window.

Withholding a sigh, Napoleon rephrased the question, “What is the title?”

Illya looked down, removing more dust from the cover of the book. He knew he was partially responsible for their present assignment but was not ready to admit it. It was not all Solo’s fault they were here. “The Wizard of Oz.”

“Oh, which version?” Napoleon’s interest perked up a bit; he had enjoyed the stories by L. Frank Baum as a child.

“There is more than one?” Illya asked, his eyebrows rose in surprise.

Napoleon nodded. “Three, the original books written around the turn of the century, the one based on the movie with Judy Garland, and the X-rated one.”

Illya narrowed his eyes, his look dubious. “You are putting me on. An X-rated version?”

“Not at all.” Napoleon smothered a smile as he recalled certain interesting passages. “It was called ‘Dorothy Does Oz’. I came across it when I was thirteen. It was most illuminating.”

“I can imagine,” Illya said dryly, turning away to keep the slight twitch to one side of his mouth from view.

Napoleon turned back to look out the window, hiding the twinkle that reflected in his eyes. “No, I don’t think you can.” For a young pubescent boy, the book had been most stimulating, not to mention eye opening. 

Illya shook his head as he turned to the first page of the book. For the next hour or so, nothing more could be heard, except the sound of pages being turned. 

Napoleon turned away from the window, his attention broken by the sharp sound of the cover of the book slammed shut. 

“Poppycock. Absolute drivel!” The Russian exclaimed in indignation.

“Where did you learn a word like poppycock?” Napoleon asked, one eyebrow rose in surprise.   
“What’s wrong with it?” he asked innocently.

“Napoleon, think about it, a tornado carries off a young girl to a strange land - where she meets witches, talking lions, talking scarecrows, and a man made up of tin.” Illya spared Napoleon a look that plainly said he must be insane while shaking his head in disbelief.

“Don’t forget flying monkeys,” Napoleon responded with a smile. 

“Why would anyone read…such nonsense?” Illya asked.

“It is supposed to be meant for children.” Napoleon defended the book. “They even have a version of it in Russian, Volshebnik Izumrudnovo Goroda -- The Wizard of the City of Emeralds.”

“Just how do you know these inconsequential pieces of information?” Illya wanted to know.

Napoleon kept silent. He wasn’t about to tell Illya that he had a soft spot for the books of his childhood nor that he had found a copy at a certain bookstore Illya patronized one day when he had been out and about.

Illya shook his head. “It is just so…unbelievable.”

“Oh I don’t know. Can’t you imagine Mr. Waverly as the wizard? Wise and all knowing?” Napoleon persisted, effectively changing the subject.

A small smile threatened to appear on the Russian’s face. “Perhaps. I can definitely imagine Angelique as the wicked witch of the west.”

Napoleon chuckled. “Not Glenda the good witch?’

“Definitely not,” Illya stated firmly. “If Waverly is the wizard, what does that make you – the scarecrow?” he asked mischievously.

Napoleon considered that seriously. The scarecrow that needed a brain? Not likely. He wouldn’t have lasted very long in this business if he didn’t have one. The lion who thought he lacked courage? No, he didn’t lack courage any more than Illya did. “The tin woodsman.” He decided.

“Napoleon, the tin woodsman wanted a heart. You have one; just ask any of the girls in the steno pool.” Illya smirked.

Napoleon didn’t say anything. He bit the inside of his lip as he pretended to look out the window. This conversation was totally ridiculous, but it was certainly better then the silence that had prevailed throughout the day. As for his having a heart, there wasn’t much he could say. He flirted, he courted, he even bedded, but he didn’t give his heart. Sometimes he wondered if he still had one.

“Which one am I?” Illya wondered aloud, breaking the hush.

Napoleon considered the choices. Illya didn’t need brains, like the scarecrow and he had courage, unlike the lion. As for a heart, he didn’t seem to need one. “Dorothy?” he suggested. “A strange person in a strange land trying to find your way home?”

Illya rose gracefully off the mattress. “I am not strange,” he muttered indignantly, but a small smile lit his face as he took Napoleon’s place by the window. The book had proven an interesting diversion from this most uninteresting assignment.

Napoleon moved to the mattress. A few winks wouldn’t hurt, he thought, as he stretched out upon it, wincing as an exposed spring stuck him. He closed his eyes, trying to relax, and drifted off to sleep wondering why the thoughts of not having a heart disturbed him so. 

There he stood, perfectly motionless, an axe uplifted in his hand. He couldn’t move anything, not even his mouth to call for help. All he could do was let out a groan. Something he’d been doing for almost a year, hoping someone - anyone would come by and take pity on him. His mind was still active as he tried to remember what life had been like before he had found himself frozen in this position.

He had once been human, but his love for a fair maiden had been his downfall. Her guardian, not wanting to lose her, had gone to the wicked witch and had his axe enchanted. One day as he was chopping wood, the axe slipped, taking his leg. He had a tinsmith make him a new one out of tin. Little by little every part of his body ended up being replaced. His only reason for being now was to chop wood. One day it had rained, and unable to reach his oilcan, he had now rusted solid.

Suddenly into the clearing came a young man, attired all in black, his blond hair shining in the sun, his blue eyes thoughtful as he took in the situation. “Does there seem to be a problem?” the softly accented voice asked, music to his ears.

His mouth rusted shut, he could only mumble, much to the blond man’s amusement. In exasperation, he let his eyes wander to the oilcan nearby. The blond man’s eyes followed his, lighting up with understanding as he caught sight of the oilcan. Going over and picking it up, the fellow squirted some oil on his jaw, using his hands to help loosen it.

Soon he was able to speak. “Thank you, my friend. You don’t know how long I’ve been standing here.”

“Just how did you get yourself in this predicament?”

“Well, I was chopping away and it began to rain.”

Amusement laced the melodious voice as the young man maintained, “You should have known better. Tin and water do not mix.” Oil was squirted in all the joints and gentle hands were moving each one gently from side to side until all were free from rust and as good as new.

A hand shook him awake. Illya was standing over him. “Your turn.” Napoleon glanced at his watch as he got up and stretched before going to the window. Odd how vivid his dream had been. Strange that he had not recognized Illya during the dream. Surely, that was who the young stranger had been. Perhaps he should tell him. No, he didn’t feel like being laughed at. It was best to let him get some rest. A cranky Russian was no fun.

Illya had found watching out the window to be a complete waste of time. With Napoleon napping, he had plenty of time on his hand and nothing to do but think. After four hours of doing just that, he decided thinking was highly overrated. When he had been replaced at the window, he lowered himself down on the mattress careful to avoid the poking spring; his eyes closed and he was asleep in seconds. 

There was a sudden jolt and he was awake. Sitting up, his head turned, searching for the disturbance. The attic was dark and Napoleon was nowhere to be seen. He found his way to the door, opening it, startled to find lovely patches of green all around and trees, lots of trees filled with all types of fruits and exotic birds. The colors were brilliant. A sparkling brook ran nearby and there stood a young girl, who looked amazingly like Anna Paola, the young social worker they had met on the train during a mission in Switzerland, holding a pair of silver shoes. “For you,” she said holding them out to him.

He looked at them as they changed from silver to ruby red and back again. What was he supposed to do with a pair of woman’s shoes? “Sorry, they are not my size,” he said. He turned back to the attic door, to find sticking out from under the room a pair of legs that look amazingly like Angelique’s. A broad grin spread across his face. If this was real, that meant Angelique really was a witch. He had been right all along. Wait until he told Napoleon.

He reached for the doorknob, only to have it and the room faded away. Turning completely around, he found that Anna was gone and in her place was a road of yellow bricks. Okay, what was going on here? A sign suddenly appeared next to him, telling him to ‘follow the yellow brick road’. The whole thing was very strange, but not having anything better to do, he did. 

Illya, mumbling in his sleep, tossed and turned over, facing the other way.

The road followed the sparkling stream and after awhile he grew thirsty. He stopped, bent down, and cupped his hands to drink from it. The water was crystal clear and tasted wonderful. Squatting there next to the stream, his eyes searched for clues as to where he was. There across the road was a fence, with a tree behind it loaded with apples, oranges, and bananas. A very strange combination. Now he was hungry. He reached to take an apple when a voice nearby informed him, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

He turned, not really surprised, to find a scarecrow that looked amazingly like Mark Slate, hanging from a post. “Why not?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Mark said, scratching his head in puzzlement.

He pulled down a couple of apples anyway, turned to the scarecrow, and said, “See you around.” 

The scarecrow called after him,“Hey, aren’t you going to help me down?”

Stopping, he turned back to asked, “Why should I?”

Mark scratched his head again. “I don’t know.”

Shaking his head, he continued down the road munching on one of the apples. When he was finished, he tossed the core over his shoulder, surprised to hear the sound of a roar behind him. Well, maybe not a roar, more like a loud meow. Turning around, he found himself confronted by a very sexy lioness that strongly resembled April Dancer. The lioness was wiping her eyes with her tail. “You hit me," she purred pitifully. 

“Sorry,” he said. She really did look good in the brown leotards and tights that set off her hair, not to mention her amazing figure. And that tail, he watched in amazement as it waved back and force of its own accord. Almost as if it had a life of its own.

The lioness danced around him, twisting and twirling seductively, causing him to turn around following her movements. “Where are you going?” she purred.

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

She stopped in front of him, her face sporting a pout. “Now you sound like that foolish scarecrow.” She moved closer, licking her lips. “You know something, you look positively – yummy.”

This was not the April he was accustomed to. He pulled out his remaining apple and, drawing his arm back, tossed it deep into the woods, “Fetch,” he ordered, relieved when April rushed after it. Shaking his head, he continued down the brick road. Napoleon was never going to believe this. He was not sure he believed it himself.

He eventually came to a fork in the road. The signs marking the roads read – Volshebnik Izumrudnovo Goroda -- The Wizard of the City of Emeralds, – The New Land of York –, and finally The Country of Solo.

After much consideration, all of two minutes, he turned down the road leading to the Country of Solo. It seemed as good a place as any to find his partner. It wasn’t long until he came to a clearing, where a man made out of tin, and looking amazing like Solo, stood stiffly with an axe held in his hands poised over his head.

***Bee wooop***

The sound brought Illya awake in an instant. Napoleon, still sitting in the same spot, had his communicator out.

“Mr. Solo, you and Mr. Kuryakin may return to headquarters,” Waverly’s voice proclaimed before closing the connection. Both men let out sighs of relief. Evidently, they were to be given a reprieve.

Returning to headquarters, each man made his separate report, each leaving out his dream. After all, it had nothing whatsoever to do with the assignment. Napoleon stopped at a phone to call his date for that evening and cancel. It was amazing how tired one became doing nothing.

***

Arriving home, Napoleon reset his alarm and wearily headed for his bedroom. Taking off his suit, he let it drop to the floor, not bothering to hang it up, and tossed the rest of his clothing into the hamper. Walking to the side of his bed, he fell forward face down, asleep.

He had been waiting for someone to come; he had been waiting for years. Made of tin, he felt nothing inside. Once upon a time, someone had made him feel. Now he was just going through the motions, or at least he had until the rain had begun to fall. Not caring, he continued to chop away, until his limbs began to stiffen, rusted completely. And that is how he remained until now. Now perhaps that someone was here.

The man with the blond hair was working the oil into and bending each joint, causing Solo to sigh with satisfaction. As the hands worked his joints, gently rubbing, gently bending, the tin changed to flesh. Soon he was totally human again and completely nude. Somehow, he wasn’t shocked.

The clear blue eyes of the blond man looked him up and down. “Perhaps we should take this some place more private?” 

The next thing he knew, the man was leading him toward his cottage. Once inside the blond looked around, his eyes searching. “Where do you keep your clothing?”

He was dumbstruck. This is not what he thought was going to happen. “But…but?”

The blond looked up from his search. “But what?”

“Don’t you want to….to touch me?”

“Touch you? Why would I?”

“But I thought…?”

“What, Napoleon, did you think I would kneel down and suck you off?” 

“Well, no. But…”

“No buts. You do not want me to touch you. You do not want me to hold you. Now get some clothes on,” the blond‘s voice was commanding.

This was so frustrating, he did want to be touched, he did want to be held, really he did. He went to the cupboard, finding clothes he hadn’t needed in years. Angrily he pulled them on. The blond man knew his name, he knew that he wanted to be close, but wouldn’t let him. Life was so unfair.

He was dressed now, his clothing felt confining. The man was behind him, breathing down his neck. A hand ran down his clothed back. “That’s better,” The accented voice choked.

He turned swiftly. Had he imagined the desire flashing in the blue eyes, gone before he could be sure, or was it just wishful thinking on his part? “Do I know you?”

Now the sapphire eyes were amused, “Not really. Not in any way that counts. Until last year, you did not know the date of my birth nor did you care.” The eyes darkened, turning stormy. “You know nothing about me. I am just an extension…a piece of equipment. To be used and then thrown aside when you are finished.”

No! That was not true. He woke up with a start, a weight sitting heavily upon his chest. It was only a dream…only a dream, one he didn’t like. When his heart rate dropped back to normal, Napoleon slid out of the bed and picked his suit up off the floor. Illya was his partner, his friend. Someone he needed. Not someone he would throw away. He roamed his living room, before sitting down, his face buried in his hands, willing the dream to fade as so many other dreams had.

***

The next morning he arrived at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters to find Illya already waiting for him. 

Illya glanced sideways at his partner as they walked down the steel grey corridor. In sprite of the crispness of the suit, Napoleon looked haggard. Illya asked, “Late night?’

“No,” Napoleon answered, more sharply then he intended.

Illya nodded, letting it pass. When Napoleon was ready to talk, he would. He always did. “Mr. Waverly would like to see us right away.”

They entered Waverly’s office to find Mark Slate and April Dancer already waiting. Illya started as he took his seat, the memory of his dream of the day before still fresh in his mind. Mark a scarecrow? April a cowardly lion?

Napoleon stayed quiet, his thoughts still disturbed by his dream. Unable to keep his mind on the briefing, he just caught the last fragment of Mr. Waverly addressing Mark Slate, “You, Mr. Slate and Miss Dancer, will attack the problem from Kiev.”

Napoleon straightened up in his chair, surprised. “Wouldn’t Illya be better suited?”

Mr. Waverly was nonplussed. “No, Mr. Solo. I have plans for you and Mr. Kuryakin in China, where his knowledge of Mandarin should prove most useful.”

Napoleon glanced at Illya, whose face held a green tinge. Something was obviously going on of which he was unaware.

The agents received their dismissals and left the room. Napoleon pulled Illya back. “What was that all about?” The Russian’s face was paler than usual, his jaw taunt.

“It is nothing, Napoleon. Of no importance,” Illya replied, waving it aside. 

“Let me be the judge of that,” Napoleon insisted.

“I would rather not talk about it,” Illya said, brusquely. “It is enough that Waverly knows.” pulling his elbow from his partner’s grasp.

***

The mission in China had turned into a fiasco. Napoleon, along with a badly damaged Illya, was trapped in an airtight room with no possible means of escape. Their intelligence had been completely wrong. If there was any consolation, he had not had anymore-disturbing dreams. They had been too busy.

Sitting on the floor, Napoleon cradled his partner’s body, desperately trying to stem the flow of blood from two bullets. Not that it would matter, there was no way that he could figure them coming out of this one alive.

With Illya’s head fitted under his chin, Napoleon contemplated what his dreams might have been trying to tell him. Was it possible that the man in his arms held the key to his heart? Napoleon started to laugh a little hysterically.

Illya shifted and Napoleon stopped laughing to ask, “Is there anything I can do…to make you more comfortable?’

Illya shook his head. “Just hold me.” He looked up into the worried face of his partner. “Why…were you…laughing? What is…funny?” he gasped through the pain.

“Nothing,” Napoleon said softly as he ran his fingers through the sweat drenched blond hair. “Only thinking about some very strange dreams I’ve been having lately.”

“Tell…me.”

“Well, it has to do with that book you read. The Wizard of Oz.”

Illya started to laugh and ended up choking.

“Illya?” Napoleon asked anxiously.

“It is funny…I too have been…having dreams.”

“About the book?’

Illya nodded.

“What were yours about?’

“You…first.”

Napoleon held the Russian closer. “Well, you remember how we discussed which character we thought we were?” Illya nodded weakly. “And I thought I was the tin woodsman?” Illya nodded again. “You said I have a heart…but you were wrong.”

Illya looked up through pain-filled eyes. “I believe…I said….ask steno…”

“My heart was stolen years ago.” Napoleon paused, burying his head in Illya’s hair. “by a certain hard-headed, obstinate Russian,” he whispered.

Illya did not know what to say. He could still remember the dream he’d had during the flight to China. He had taken the opportunity to get some uninterrupted sleep, knowing that there might not be another chance once the mission was underway, and to avoid more questions that Napoleon might have about Kiev. How was he to explain the painful reason why he was no longer welcomed in the city where he had grown up? The memories were still too close.

Mr. Waverly knew, of course, out of necessity. But no one else. Maybe someday…was his last thought before he had drifted off to sleep.

He was standing at the roadside. In a clearing stood a man made completely out of tin, frozen in the act of chopping wood. Mesmerized, he moved closer and stared intently into dark eyes tinted with hazel.

“Napoleon?” he asked in amazement. “What has happened to you?’

“Mmmmmm,” Napoleon mumbled, his eyes flashed as they moved toward the oilcan sitting nearby.

With the understanding borne of years of association with Solo, he reached for the can, using it to loosen the joints of Napoleon’s rusted jaw.

“Speechless, are we?” he asked as he manipulated the metal, finally getting it to open and shut.

“Thanks,” Napoleon said gratefully. “Do you know how long I have been standing here?”

Feeling as if he were delivering lines from a play, he answered, “No. How long?”

“A loooong time,” Napoleon answered with a grin. “Would you mind?” He gestured with his head, first to the oilcan, then to the joints in his arm.

Working swiftly, he oiled the joints at the elbow. When he finished, he worked the joints until they were loose, and the axe no longer raised above the American’s head. The grip loosened and the axe clattering to the ground. 

“Ah, that feels much better.” Napoleon sighed. “Now the neck…the neck.” 

He obliged, working the oil into the joint, moving it until the tightness eased.

“Good. Now the legs, please,” Napoleon requested.

Kneeling to oil the knees, he couldn’t help but ask, “How did you get in this mess in the first place?”

Napoleon frowned as he looked down upon the blond head. “I’m not sure. There was this witch, I think, and rain…lots of rain.”

“Angelique?”

“No,” Napoleon said thoughtfully, “Come to think of it, she looked more like Serena.”

“Why am I not surprised?” he said dryly.

“How should I know? This is your dream,” Napoleon said as he started toward the door to his cottage.

“This is a dream?” he asked as he followed his partner.

Napoleon turned and looked at him in astonishment. “Look at me. If this isn’t a dream, we are in big trouble.”

He conceded the point. “So what happens now?”

Napoleon paused. “I think we should head for the Emerald City to find the wizard.”

“Why?”

“You read the book. So you can get home.” Napoleon said a hint of exasperation in his voice. “But we had better be careful. I hear there are flying monkeys around.”

He looked around the cottage. It looked amazing like Napoleon’s apartment in New York. “Why can’t I just stay here?”

“Would you like to?” Napoleon asked eagerly.

He thought about it. “Yes. Very much.”

Suddenly Napoleon was no longer made of tin and Illya found himself wrapped in the American’s arms. It felt save…secure…like coming home.

At that point, an announcement had been made that the plane was coming in for a landing. Illya realized he had come to terms with his dream. As the book said ‘there was no place like home’ and Napoleon was his home. Now here they were about to die. It was a shame that he had not had a chance to share this with Napoleon earlier. Now it was too late.

Home would never be Kiev, nor Paris, nor London. Not even New York, unless Napoleon was there. He snuggled more firmly into the strong arms. Lifting his head to look at his partner, he opened his mouth to tell his friend his conclusions, but the pain was too great.

Napoleon, seeing it, held him even closer. “Don’t talk.” He brought his head down, their lips touching, their mouths opening, parting only when a final gasp escaped from the blond in his arms as his breathing stopped. The blue eyes were shut peacefully as if in sleep. Napoleon, shedding no tears, gently laid the slender figure flat. Lying down beside him, Napoleon prepared to follow him into oblivion.

***

Napoleon was staring out the window, looking down on a street in Hong Kong, remembering what it had felt like when Illya had stopped breathing. He’d given up then, life no longer worth living. Lightheaded from lack of oxygen, he had laid down next to his partner, prepared to join him. Only he hadn’t. He vaguely remembered Mark’s face staring down at him, and lots of shouting just before he lost consciousness. 

He’d regained consciousness, an oxygen mask covering his face, to find April anxiously hovering over him.

“Thank God,” April had breathed, her voice fading in and out, before she turned her head to look over her shoulder and call to Mark. “He’s awake.”

Mark’s face swam into his line of vision from behind April’s shoulder. “Welcome back. Thank goodness we…in time. I’ll…more later. We’re…on a boat… Hong Kong,” was all he could make out.

“Illya?” he’d gasped, trying to sit up.

April had pushed him back down. “Unconscious.”

Unconscious – not dead. He thought gratefully before everything faded from view.

That had been over a week ago, ten days to be precise. A quick check up and he’d been released. Illya on the other hand, required surgery to remove the bullets, and was in a coma. The doctors could not or would not tell him when Illya would reawaken. All he could do was wait.

***

Pain. Illya eyes fluttered open. Either he wasn’t dead or he was in hell. There was coolness in the air, so he must not be in hell. His chest felt constricted as if he were wrapped tightly in bandages. He let his gaze travel around the room, a groan escaping as his head moved, and stopped when he observed Napoleon standing by the window looking out. 

“Why are we not dead?” he croaked weakly, interested to know the reason why. 

Napoleon turned toward him, relief etched on his face. “You sound disappointed, Tovarisch.”

Illya shook his head, “Not…disappointed. Curious.” His eyes closed, he was so tired and he was soon back asleep.

Napoleon walked over to the bed, reaching down to brush the blond hair from the broad forehead. Let him sleep. There was plenty of time for recriminations later. He had really overstepped his bounds this time. His body was acting traitorously to his partner’s presence; in a manner he knew Illya would not welcome. He heaved a heavy sigh. It was knowing that his attention would not be welcomed that bothered him.

***

Illya turned to his side, or tried to. Pain, along with tubing attached to his arm, kept him in place. The pain at least was familiar. The last thing he remembered with any clarity was being shot. The rest was hazy, dream like. He hoped not, the dim memory of a gentle kiss stayed with him.

Napoleon! Illya tried to sit up, his gaze sliding around the room, stopping at the bed next to his, where his partner lay sleeping. Reaching for the nearest object, he chunked it at his partner.

Napoleon had not wanted to leave now that Illya was no longer in a coma. He had stretched out on the vacant bed next to his partner’s, just to rest for a few minutes. 

Napoleon’s eyes opened instantly. “Hey!” he yelped in surprise, his eyes lit up with delight as he noticed that the Russian was awake. Slipping off the bed, he made his way to Illya’s side. “How are you feeling?”

“Like someone who has been shot,” Illya croaked as he glared at his partner. His throat was dry and irritated. “Water?”

Napoleon looked to the night table, looking for the glass. “I’d be happy to oblige, but someone seems to have thrown the glass at me.”

A nurse breezed in. “How are we this morning?” she asked brightly.

Napoleon straightened his tie, adjusted his wrinkled jacket and ran his hand through his mussed hair. 

The nurse stuck a thermometer into Kuryakin’s mouth. “Who are you trying to impress?” Illya muttered around the thermometer as Napoleon handed him a glass filled with water.

“Not you,” Napoleon murmured.

The nurse tsked as she went about checking the blond’s pulse. Plucking the thermometer from his mouth, she studied it. Pleased with the results, she smiled at Solo and left.

Once alone again the two men looked at each other. Illya surprised that Napoleon looked distinctly nervous.

“Illya?” 

“Did you mean what you said?” Illya asked as he wiggled deeper into the uncomfortable bed.

“Umm, just what was it I said,” Napoleon hedged.

“Napoleon!” Illya growled.

“Do you mind?” Napoleon asked slowly.

Illya thought about it. “I mind dying. Knowing I’m loved…I think I can live with that.” Illya admitted reluctantly. “You compared me to Dorothy…looking for a way home?”

Napoleon nodded, a small smile playing on his lips, as he remembered. He still wasn’t sure what had led him to think Illya was searching for…a place to belong.

“Have I found one? A home?” Illya looked up and asked expectantly.

Napoleon’s heart skipped a beat. Was Illya saying what he thought he was saying. Unable to speak, he nodded.

“Now what?” Illya asked, unsure as to what Napoleon’s plans for them were. Not even sure if there were any plans.

“You got me.” 

“You must tell me all about your dream sometime,” Illya said languorously, changing the subject, as his eyes starting to close.

“When you tell me yours,” Napoleon said softly. 

Something at the edge of his mind caused Illya to reluctantly reopen his eyes. “That reminds me, you still haven’t told me why we aren’t dead.”

“Mark and April. Somehow they found out about it from their end.”

“Ah.” Illya nodded, that explained it. “Saved in the nick of time.”

“Where do we go from here?” Napoleon asked nervously.

“It depends, where would you like to go?” turning the question back on Napoleon.

“I’m not sure,” Napoleon replied, his brilliant smile flashing in and out like a light bulb with a short in it. “I was hoping you’d decide.”

Illya, amused by Napoleon’s reaction, had just one suggestion. “We could always just follow the yellow brick road.” His eyes twinkled as Napoleon groaned at the pun.

***

Two weeks later Napoleon pushed through the door leading into the room Illya occupied, only to catch him throwing down his spoon in disgust and push the food tray away. 

“Where have you been?” Illya demanded as he crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“Someone had to clean up the mess left by the China debacle,” Napoleon said as he walked to the bedside, his nose wrinkled in distaste at the hospital food left on the tray. “I heard they were cutting you loose today, so I brought you some clothing,” he said as he set down a bag before sitting on the side of the bed.

“So they tell me.” Illya sighed as he leaned back against the raised bed. “About those dreams.” Illya said grimly, looking Napoleon directly in the eye.

Napoleon’s gut froze. “What about them.”

“You do realize, they really didn’t mean anything,” Illya stated.

Napoleon’s mouth opened and shut without saying anything. He got up and went to the window, his hands inside his pants pockets. “How can you say that?”

“I can say that because I am no longer sedated,” Illya asserted. “We…I must have been crazy to think otherwise.”

Napoleon closed his eyes and leaned his head against the cool glass. So this was how Illya was going to play it. Denial. Napoleon had visited every day, savoring the time to come after Illya was released, only to find that the Russian was starting to waver as he felt better.

“Be reasonable, Napoleon. I’m not looking for a home and you certainly don’t feel…” Illya blinked as he noticed Napoleon’s dejected posture. “Exactly what was your dream about?”

“It’s obviously not important anymore,” Napoleon said quietly.

Illya placed his hands behind his head and laughed, “You wouldn’t believe mine. It was a doozy.”

Napoleon glanced at his partner unable to resist a small smile at the use of a word like doozy. “Tell me,” he said as he turned his back to the window, interested in spite of himself.

“Well the first dream-” Illya noticed Napoleon start when he said that. “Yes, there was more than one. The first one started in that attic, I looked for you and you weren’t there.” He frowned before rushing on, “but Mark, April and Anna Paola were there. Even Angelique, well not Angelique herself, just her legs. And Anna tried to give me some shoes that kept changing colors and everything was in color.”

“Whoa, hold on there,” Napoleon begged stemming the flow of words. “What do you mean just Angelique’s legs?”

“Yes, you see the room had landed on her and only her legs were showing.”

“Then how do you know they belonged to Angelique?”

“I just know…and Mark was the scarecrow – perfect typecasting don’t you think?”

“Don’t let Mark hear you say that,” Napoleon chuckled. “Who was April?”

Illya blushed. “She was the … the cowardly lion.”

“April cowardly! I don’t believe it.” Napoleon narrowed his eyes. “Why are you blushing?”

“None of your business,” Illya stated, irritated at his reaction. “Anyway, there was this road made of yellow bricks and a sign that said to follow it. So I did.”

“Then what?”

Illya lowered his gaze as he bit the inside of his lower lip. “There were three road signs,” he said slowly, remembering that part of the dream. “One obviously represented the way to Russia. The other to U.N.C.L.E.”

“And the third?”

Illya looked up, his eyes disturbed. He had decided that dreams meant nothing. “The third led to you.”

Napoleon felt heartened and didn’t say anything.

“You were…made of tin…and rusted.” For some reason that he found disturbing, Illya didn’t want to talk about his dream anymore. 

Napoleon started, this was beginning to sound like his dream. He’d heard that when partner’s worked together long enough they started to think alike, but dream alike? He pushed away from the window. “Why don’t you start dressing while I see about taking you away from all this?” he said, his eyes taking in the room.

A huge smile lit Illya’s face and he reached for the bag of clothing. There was nothing he would like better then to leave this hospital room. The smile faded a little as he watched Napoleon’s departure. Napoleon didn’t seem to feel the same way he did about the dreams.

While waiting for the paperwork to be completed, Napoleon went to the payphone and called their hotel. Once everything was signed on the dotted line, he went back to the room. Illya was bent over in pain as he tried to get his turtleneck on over his head. 

“Here, let me help with that,” Napoleon said exasperated, helping his partner get the shirt the rest of the way down. 

“Thank you,” Illya politely, shaking his head, letting his hair fall back into place. He reached into the bag and pulled out a pair of socks. Bending over to put them on, he let out a grunt. Getting dressed was not going to be easy for awhile.

Napoleon grinned as he took the socks from the Russian and squatted down to put them on his feet. He had just finished tying Illya’s shoelaces when a nurse appeared with a wheelchair. 

“No, thank you. I think I’ll walk,” Illya said as he stood up. A wave of vertigo hit him and he almost toppled over.

“Take the chair,” Napoleon ordered as he caught him. “You’ve been flat on your back for over two weeks.” He was relieved when Illya gave in to the logic of that and slid into the chair.

The ride to the hotel was uneventful and Napoleon laughed quietly when Illya sank onto the sofa of his hotel room, murmuring, “There’s no place like home.” The hotel room was one of the better ones, with a sitting area and separate bedroom.

Once he had checked out the room, making sure it was safe, Napoleon turned to head for the door. Illya’s call of, “Where are you going?” stopped him. 

Reluctantly he turned back. “I booked another room.” Even now, standing this far from his partner, knowing he couldn’t… Well, it was difficult. He couldn’t see staying in the same room, sharing …he promptly squelched those thoughts.

Illya leaned forward in surprised. “You what? Why?” his mind searching frantically for a reason, any reason. “Mr. Waverly will not approve and what about me? I’m an invalid.” 

Napoleon looked into the beseeching blue eyes. Debating. Reluctantly he shut the door and went to sit in the chair across from the sofa.

Illya leaned back, his head resting against the sofa back. “Is it because of your dreams?” 

Napoleon sat there, one arm dangling over the chair’s arm, the other rubbing his face. “Not really. Though they were the catalyst.” He got up, planning to head for the door. “Maybe I should just leave.” Passing the sofa, Illya’s hand reached out, gripping his arm, stopping him.

“Is it that important to you?” Illya asked puzzled. He couldn’t imagine them, he and Napoleon, being together…that way. No, that wasn’t true, he could…and that was the problem. The tender kiss they had shared in that locked room burned in his memory, and reluctantly he had to admit he yearned for more. With a jerk of his arm, he pulled Napoleon down to sit next to him on the sofa. Illya stared at the American. Then much to his surprise, he leaned forward, one hand gripping his partner’s shirt as he pulled Napoleon to him bringing their lips together. Shocked by his own audacity, his closed his eyes as Napoleon’s arms enveloped him. He heard himself whimper with disappointment as Napoleon pulled away.

Napoleon stared at the blond Russian in his arms. Was this the way their relationship going to be, with Illya changing his mind, first one way than another? If so, it was going to be damn frustrating. Might as well take advantage while the man was pliable. He moved back in making the kiss more demanding. If this was to be his only chance to find out what it could be like, he was going to take full advantage of it. Suddenly it was Illya pushing him back onto the sofa, invading his mouth, mouthing his neck, stopping. Stopping? 

Illya, felt a stab of pain in his side and he pulled back breathing heavily, ashamed and shocked at his own behavior. 

“Time out,” Napoleon gasped, making the appropriate hand signal, between trying to suck in some fresh air. “One, this couch is pretty darn uncomfortable. And two, is it just men you don’t want to have sex with or just me?”

When Illya didn’t answer, he continued out of breath, “Look, either we do this or we don’t. But don’t play with me. I don’t think I can take much more.” His pants were tight, his arousal so evident that it hurt. “If you’re not going to do anything, at least let me have some privacy so I can take care of it myself.”

Illya turned away. “Go ahead, nobody’s stopping you,” he said harshly.

Napoleon tried to get up and couldn’t. “I can’t…,” he groaned.

Illya looked down at his fellow agent, his face red, his suit rumbled, the hard bulge in his slacks, and started laughing.

Napoleon glared at him, his dark eyes blazing, rubbing himself, trying for some relief. “I’m glad you find this funny,” he snapped.

Illya continued laughing as he shook his head, taking the darker man’s hand and bringing it to his own raging erection, seeing the dark eyes widen in surprise. Careful of the stitch in his side, he got up, and carefully pulled Napoleon up too, pushing him from behind into the bedroom. Easing himself on the bed, he pulled Napoleon close, undoing his belt, lowering the zipper, pushing both slacks and boxers down, freeing the enormous cock from its confinement. Running his fingers up and down the rigid staff, he felt his partner tremble. Taking pity on him and surprising himself, he took the shaft into his mouth and began sucking. Later when the need was less urgent he would play with it, but for now, he would do what he could to provide Napoleon some respite. As for his own release, once he finished with Napoleon he had other plans. 

Running his hands lightly up and down Napoleons rounded bottom, amazed at the softness of the skin, Illya could feel the muscles clinching in time with each sucking motion. Suddenly the penis in his mouth went limp, he pulled away to look cross-eyed at it, before bring his gaze upward to Napoleon’s face.

Napoleon’s face held trepidation, soon it was level with his own. Intense warm brown eyes, filled with suspicion, stared intently into his. “Illya, is that really you?”

Illya stared at him blankly. “Just what is that supposed to mean?”

Napoleon’s face was flushed with embarrassment and something else, was it guilt? “Well you have to admit you’ve been acting a little out of character here.”

Illya swung his legs over the side of the bed, holding his side to ease the twinge the movement caused him. He looked at the man squatting in front of him. Except for the pants pooled at his ankle, Napoleon was still fully dressed. For that matter so was he. Slipping off his shoes, he captured Napoleon’s face with his hands, bringing it closer to his. “Look me deeply in the eye,” he said, his accent imitating that of Dracula, before releasing Napoleon's face to say in a normal tone. “Of course it’s me, you oaf. Now get into this bed and let’s get on with it.”

Napoleon stayed where he was for a minute. That coma had obviously had a strange effect on his partner. Should he take advantage of it or not? Why was he even concerned about taking advantage? He stood up and loosened his tie, shrugged off his jacket and made quick work of the rest of his clothing before diving over Illya, who was again stretched out on the bed, to the other side. 

Illya, for his part, was trying to wiggle out of his own pants. He had managed to slide them down below his hips and using his feet to slid them completely off and over the side of the bed. Just that small exertion had him breathing heavily, never mind trying to take off his shirt. 

“Need a hand there?” he heard Napoleon say. He turned his head, his body balanced on his elbow to see his partner, a dark lock of hair dangling over one eye, lying on his side his head propped up with one hand. “So now you’re willing?”

Illya looked away before looking back. Stupid question. “Napoleon, I’ve always been willing.”

Napoleon cocked an eyebrow in surprise. “That’s news to me.”

Illya lay back, his hands tucked behind his head, contemplating the ceiling, “Well, it would hardly do to advertise. Besides, it seemed to me your mind was centered mostly on the fairer sex.”

Napoleon chewed on that for a moment. “You mean to say…if I had shown an interest…”

Illya turned to his side, mirror imaging his partner. “Hind sight is twenty-twenty.”

“Hind sight my ass!” Solo exclaimed. “Are you telling me we’ve wasted years…years when we could have…?”

Illya nodded, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement. “Besides, Napoleon,” Illya said reasonably, as his fingers glided over Napoleon’s bare chest. “as sexually active as you are, I probably would have been too tired to complete our assignments.”

Napoleon lay flat, his turn to contemplate the ceiling, Illya’s hand now flat on his abdomen, his erection once again ready to take part in the proceedings. Effortlessly, he pulled Illya to lie between his spread legs, their cocks aligning delightfully together. He gently rolled up the soft turtleneck shirt as the blond Russian, his upper body supported by his arms on either side of the American, looked down on him. “My, my, partner mine. We are full of surprises, aren’t we?” he murmured as using his toes, he slid the socks off Illya’s feet, before bringing his bare foot up and down the muscular back of his legs, enjoying the feeling of the light hair under his sole.

Napoleon’s hands ran up and down the Russian’s, his fingertips feeling the marks left by the various tortures the man had endured. Ecstatic when the blond melted into his arms, bare chest to bare chest, he tested the waters by thrusting upward gently. 

His smile widened, as he heard the gurgle in the Russian’s throat followed by a moan that he managed to capture with his mouth. Hips gently rocking to an ancient tune, the two men clung to each other, their minds and thoughts as far away from U.N.C.L.E. and THRUSH as possible.

The rhythm grew wilder, voices more vocal, thankfully not loud enough to annoy the neighbors, as they let the rapture take them to a crescendo, collapsing together as their mutual climaxes claimed them. 

Regaining his senses, Illya rolled off his partner, his arm raised to cover his face as he tried to get his breathing under control, his hand to his side easing the twinge he felt.

Napoleon’s hand came to his heaving chest as he waited for his heart to regain its normal pattern of beating. Gulping in air, the room smelling of recent sex, Napoleon turned his face to the smaller man. “What do we do now?”

“You know, Napoleon, I find that question very irritating,” Illya complained irritably, his eyes still covered by his arm. “Could you please stop asking it?”

“I meant…where do we go from here?” Napoleon asked.

“I know what you meant.” Illya said sharply. “I just don’t want to discuss it.”

Napoleon lifted his head in amazed surprise. “Didn’t you enjoy it?”

Illya lowered his arm, his blue eyes glaring. “You know I did,” he said accusingly.

Here we go again. Napoleon thought. Make up your mind. “So what’s the problem? You do know that was the object…to enjoy it.”

“I know, it just makes me uncomfortable,” he said dismissively.

“Christ, Illya, I’ve heard of complexes.” Napoleon shook his head, using the sheet to wipe the pearly cum from his and Illya’s abdomens, “I can see I’m going to have my job cut out for me, teaching you the joy of sex.”

Illya let out a snort, relaxing into the rumpled bed sheets. It wasn’t his fault he had been raised in a repressed society. He had enjoyed it and he intended to continue enjoying it.

Napoleon let out a sigh of exasperation, the turned his gaze to Illya. “Whenever you’re ready to come home,” he said as he got out of the bed to head for the bathroom. “Just tap your heels together… I’ll be waiting.” He paused as he got to the door. “Just do me a favor.” 

Illya rose up and turned his curious gaze to follow his partner. What favor? 

“Tell those stupid munchkins to quit singing. That’s all I keep hearing,” Napoleon’s disgruntled voice floated from the bathroom. “Follow, follow, follow the yellow brick road. It’s driving me crazy.” 

Illya let his head fall back to the pillow, laughing wickedly.

 

The end


End file.
